Chapter 8 Choices
Boulder, Colorado
The house was large, built of stone and brick, set on spacious grounds that were perfectly manicured. Dean drove around the paved driveway and parked under the covered portico next to the front doors, whistling softly.
Sam glanced at him. "You should see the homes the pro-basketball players have."
Dean grinned and shrugged, getting out of the car and walking up to the front door. Eleanor Holmes answered their knock, an elegant woman in her late sixties, immaculately dressed and reserved while being courteous. She ushered them to the living room and gestured for them to take seats, moving around the low table to the long sofa that sat in front of the windows to face them.
Dean watched her sit, face composed, hands clasped in her lap, and wondered how much information they'd get out of her. She seemed to be the sort of woman who would be hard to rattle.
"I just want to say how sorry we are for your loss, Mrs. Holmes," he said, playing sincerity, the first card in his deck.
She looked at him politely. "Thank you."
Scratch sincerity, Dean thought, watching her turn to Sam.
"You know, Brick Holmes was my idol back in high school. Amazing career. Uh, eighteen pro seasons, seven division championships, four Super Bowls – never slowed down a day," Sam said, gushing a little. Dean turned his head slowly, staring at his brother.
Eleanor seemed to find the adulation normal. "Brick lived for competition and athletic perfection. I don't think it occurred to his fans that he was human, like the rest of us."
"Did you know your son was an organ donor?" Sam asked forthrightly, the hero-worship gone from his face and voice. And Dean saw her hesitate, the first time she wasn't completely prepared. His attention sharpened.
"Does that make this a matter for the FBI?" she asked, looking at Sam, a very faint edge to her words.
Dean smiled. "Like we explained earlier, we're mostly here, uh, to dot some i's on a different matter."
He could feel her shifting gears, admiring the way she moved to a seemingly helpful and utterly innocuous explanation in seconds.
"There was a public-awareness thing a few years ago. A lot of star athletes signed on. I'm sure Brick didn't think twice about it, since he never thought he was going to die," she said, the tiniest catch in her voice adding a poignancy to her brave smile.
Damn, this gal was good, Dean struggled to keep his face neutral.
"A lot of jocks are like that, I guess," Dean said, wondering if he could push her a little harder, if she would show a little more under a different kind of pressure. "You know, I – I can't help wonder what happened that night on that bridge. There was light traffic, no alcohol involved, no skid marks. Big-time athlete, reflexes like a cat, how is it that he just drives off the side of a bridge?"
"When things happen that aren't supposed to happen, they're called accidents, I believe," Eleanor said slowly, her face hardening slightly, her eyes cold as she looked directly at him.
"So, everybody knows about Brick's football career, obviously, but no one knows much about his personal life. Was he ever married?" Sam asked quickly.
Dean watched her eyes cut away to his brother. He'd definitely scored a hit with the push, but it could've just been the insinuation, she seemed protective of her son. He watched her regain her composure, settling back into the comfortable persona of star's mother that she played to perfection.
"Just to the game. He gave it everything he had," she said firmly. "It's a difficult life."
Round two, Dean thought uncomfortably. "Did you notice any changes in Brick before he died – you know, anyone, anything new in his life?"
Eleanor was relaxed again as she answered the question. "No, no. I don't think so."
"So, no new interests? Fly fishing, stamp collecting, the occult?" He watched her expression as the last one word sank in.
"The occult?" she repeated back to him disbelievingly.
"As a 'for instance'," he qualified.
"No," Eleanor said disparagingly, looking at him as she said it then glancing to Sam. "Everything was just as it had been." She looked down and continued smoothly. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid my time is up."
She rose to her feet, and Dean glanced at Sam, both getting up. "The university is naming a new athletic building after Brick. I can't be late."
"Of course," Sam said quickly. "Just one more question."
Eleanor cut him off, smiling at both of them to soften the dismissal. "There is always one more question in life, isn't there? That's what I find."
She walked past them to the door and Dean shrugged, the two of them following her out.
The front door closed definitively behind them and Dean pulled out his phone as he walked back to the car.
"Oh, she didn't want to say much, did she?" Sam sighed, looking around the gardens.
"Son of a bitch."
"What?"
"There it is. It happened," Dean said, looking at the small screen, brows drawn together. Late – because the monster was running late or a delay in finding the body, he wondered?
"Come on, don't tell me someone had their heart ripped out here in Boulder," Sam said, looking over his shoulder.
Dean turned away, heading for the other side of the car. "All right, then I won't tell you."
Eleanor Holmes stood to one side of the multi-paned window beside the front door, watching the agents get into the black car and drive away. She'd dealt with so many people in the last year – in all the long years – and those two had given her an unsettling feeling. They'd been fishing, but she had the sense that they'd had little idea of what they'd been looking for.
It had all come crashing down with the organ donation, she thought. Inyo had hoped it could all end with his death. He'd been wrong. And now … now, she had no way of even knowing what would happen next. She thought of the young man's question about the occult. Not exactly the occult, although she supposed it might fall into the general category.
She turned from the window and walked to the staircase, gripping the carved newel post and looking up.
A tall, slender dark-haired woman stood on the first landing, looking down at her.
"What are you doing here, Randa?" Eleanor asked, frowning.
"You know I like to stay close to the mother ship." Randa smiled and looked around, the smile disappearing as she started down the stairs. "I saw a car out front, so I came in the back. Cops?"
Eleanor looked down and began to walk up the steps. The woman was intrusive and tiring to be around, with the boundless energy of Inyo's heart and a boundless paranoia about being found out. "I suppose Brick's death continues to fascinate."
"So we're clear. You're still being very careful about what you say?" Randa turned to look up at her as she reached the landing.
"I'm old, Randa, not an idiot," Eleanor pointed out acerbically.
"I'm just trying to protect Brick," the young woman said pacifically, although the softness of her tone didn't really reach her eyes.
Eleanor looked down. "And so am I."
"Brick's heart beats inside here now," Randa said passionately, her hand rising to her chest. "He gave me new life. And I'll watch out for you like Brick did."
"I don't need your concern," Eleanor said.
"We need each other," Randa contradicted sharply, eyes narrowing. "And Brick needs us. You keep our little secret safe, and the three of us will be just fine."
Eleanor watched her walk down the stairs. Inyo had always been able to overcome Cacao's influences, he'd been a warrior, strong and clear. The girl had none of that strength, none of that clarity. If anyone was going to crack, the older woman thought, it would be her. And as long as she didn't mention Brick Holmes, that would be fine with her.
The Boulder motel room had been decorated with a Western motif, cowboys on horses on the room divider, heavy, varnished timberwork set off with sage-green walls. Dean sat by the front window, working on the laptop, half-listening to Sam's phone conversation with the pompous-ass professor.
"All right, Professor Morrison, that does it. The FBI thanks you," Sam stood up, picking up his notebook from the bed. "Yes, I am totally looking into adding you as a technical advisor … yeah, it – it comes with a medical plan … all right, goodbye." He looked at the phone as he turned it off.
"He come through?" Dean asked.
Sam turned around, putting the phone into his pocket. "Yeah, he did."
"All right, so, here's what crazy Arthur Swenson was babbling over and over." Sam walked to the table, pulling out the second chair and sitting down as he read from his notes. "Um, first, it is a dead language – ancient Mayan."
"Doesn't get much deader than that," Dean murmured disinterestedly, looking at the screen.
"So, what Arthur was saying was "The divine god Cacao is born."" Sam read.
"Cacao?"
"Cacao," Sam confirmed. "Yeah, the Mayan God of maize – corn, the big crop. Cacao was the most powerful god because maize was the most important thing to the Mayans." He thought about the ancient culture and added, "Well, that and torturing and killing everyone in sight."
"So, this is what we're looking for, a thousand-year-old culture's god of corn?"
"Uh, I guess," Sam agreed, looking back at his notes.
Dean looked back at the screen in front of him. "Well, whatever it is, we better cap it quick, or somebody in Phoenix is next up to get their heart yanked."
"Someone in Phoenix got a piece of Brick?" Sam looked up.
"Yeah, I got a name and e-mailed the cops when we got here," Dean said. "Just heard back from them. They haven't seen the guy in days."
"Uh, oh, got another e-mail here, too," he added as the notification flashed on the screen. "This one is for you. From a university. Answering questions about admissions." Dean read the salient points from the email on the screen.
Goddamn it, Sam thought. Need a webmail account. "Just something I'm looking into. An option," he said casually, looking down at his notebook.
Dean looked at him. "You're seriously talking about hanging it up?"
"I'm not talking about anything, Dean. I'm just looking at options," Sam said defensively, meeting his brother's gaze. Dean just kept looking at him, and he glanced away. "So, what, should we just go to Phoenix and chase our tails until this guy shows his face?"
Dean looked down at the keyboard. "No. Uh, Brick Holmes is the way into this."
He stood up, walking around the table and heading for the bathroom. "Eleanor Holmes was doing her damnedest not to tell us a thing," he added over his shoulder. "Nice job on changing the subject, though."
He closed the bathroom door and leaned back against it, staring at the shower on the other side of the small room. God, déjà vu, he thought, feeling his heart pounding at the base of his throat. Checking out options. It would've been funny if it hadn't been so goddamned not. Sam was still planning in secret. Not talking about anything was right. Thirty years old and still hiding everything. He pushed off the door and went to the sink, turning the tap on and cupping both hands under the running water, splashing it over his face, the bite of the cold mountain water steadying him a little.
Did he want to talk about it? Because there was absolutely nothing stopping him from walking back out there and asking. He turned off the tap and dried his face, looking into the mirror above the sink for a moment and then back down at the smooth porcelain bowl between his hands. No. He didn't want to talk. He wanted things to be the way they had been without needing to talk about anything.
Good luck with that, he told himself sourly. He wasn't even sure what 'the way it had been' was now. How they'd been in 2010? When Sam had had no soul? Or 2009, when he'd wanted to hand himself over to Michael? Or maybe 2008, when Sam had been drinking blood? Or before then … '07 and the psychic visions … '06 and the nightmares and pain of Jessica's death …
He leaned against the sink and closed his eyes. Face it, he told himself sourly, there was no idyllic time when they'd been good. Not since before Stanford, and probably not even then. Just years of life, of hunting and arguing and saving each other's lives, and all of it like some complicated tapestry that he could never get far enough way from to see the whole picture.
The Holmes house was in darkness when they walked down the drive, the expensive car gone. Eleanor hadn't lied about her appointment, at least. Dean dropped to one knee and held the penlight between his teeth as he picked the lock on the front door, hearing the welcome click as the tenon was released from the mortise and turning the handle as he got to his feet.
He swapped the penlight for the bigger flashlight and beside him, Sam turned his on as they headed up the stairs.
"All right, naming ceremony's over at ten. We got to get in and out," Dean said when they reached the top.
Sam gestured down the hall. "Master bedroom."
"Yeah."
The master bedroom was easily discernible, double doors instead of a single, and the room was bigger than their motel room. Dean looked around at the widely-spaced furniture, the enormous bed with its pearl silk comforter.
"Closets," Dean said, flashlight playing over the two doors that stood to either side of the dresser. He walked to the closest, opening it and flicking on the light, turning off his flashlight and tucking it back into the jacket pocket.
"Brick's closet," Dean identified his, looking over the racks of suits and shirts and jackets, the shelving of shoes and accessories. "Looks like the stuff hasn't been touched in a year." He pulled opened a deep drawer. "Man, what this stuff would go for on eBay." He picked up a bottle of peroxide and applicator, nestled in amongst the jumpers and soft shirts.
"Hey, Sammy, would it totally crush you to know that your boy Brick wasn't a natural blond?"
In the other closet, Sam looked around distractedly, forehead creased as he looked more closely at the clothing hanging in there. "Dean, this is really weird."
"What you got?" Dean closed the drawer and kept looking.
"I don't know. Is this Eleanor's closet?" Sam stared at the skirts and blouses, jackets and rows of pumps, sandals, slip-ons and purses on the shelf beside him.
"Why would his mother's closet be in here? Are you sure?" Dean asked absently, looking through another drawer's contents.
Sam lifted an outfit from the rail, the beige Chanel-styled jacket and Hermes scarf perfectly familiar. "Check this out."
He came out of the closet and held it up as Dean came out of Brick's closet. "This is what she was wearing today when we talked to her."
"Maybe she moved into Brick's room after he died," Dean suggested. He glanced at the king-size bed on the other wall of the room. "Or ..."
Sam followed his gaze. "Oh."
"Thanks, Dean." He turned away from the bed, and the image his brother had inadvertently conjured there. "Now that image is permanently etched into my retinas."
Sam walked back into the closet, hanging the jacket up on the rail and looking around the space. It was Eleanor's closet, he thought. There wasn't any doubt about that.
Dean looked at the rack at the far end of the room, fingers brushing over the fabric of the clothing hanging there. Between two jackets he caught a glimpse of metal on the rear wall, and pushed the clothing aside, revealing a door, fitted carefully into the wall.
"That's what I'm talking about," he said, satisfaction in his voice. Sam came out of his closet and watched as his brother opened the door, following him into a small space lined with shelving, and cupboards. Dean flicked on the lightswitch, staring around at the sporting equipment and uniforms, trophies and awards, the framed newsclipping and photographs taking up the remaining bare wallspace.
"Wow." Sam brushed by his brother and walked into the room, turning around, a wide grin on his face. "I knew he'd have something like this in his house."
"This is a lot of hardware," Dean walked slowly into the room, looking at the shelf in front of him. "Okay, the football trophies I get, but there's a lot of other stuff here," he stared at the baseball helmet, basket of balls, gloves and bats. On the lower shelf were boxing gloves and rolls of tape. "– I mean, baseball, boxing." He turned to the bright, fire-retardant suit hanging beside him, brows rising. "Race-car driving."
Sam pulled a bamboo sword from the basket beside him, looking at his brother. "He was a fan. Any kind of athlete – he respected them," he said slowly, coming up with a justification without thinking about it. "I mean, look at all the old stuff he's got – a cricket bat, golf clubs, a Kendo sword, archery equipment." He turned to look behind him. On the wall, three spears had been mounted, their polished metal heads gleaming softly in the light.
Dean looked at the cupboard next to him. The top was covered in huge trophies, a little tarnished and dusty. Underneath were more shelves. The top one contained a binder and loose papers. Beneath that, several cardboard boxes sat side by side, their brown paper coverings torn, the cardboard a little bent. Old, he thought, pulling the top one out. He lifted the lid and looked inside. The box was filled with paper, and the top one caught his eye with an address and salutation. Letters.
"Hey, look at this."
He put the box down on a table and pulled out the letter, the paper yellowing and dry between his fingers.
It was a letter alright; he read it through and looked at the box. "Grab another one and a chair."
They sat on either side of the table and pulled out handfuls of the letters, starting to read.
Sam looked up after he'd read through the first ten letters. "They're all the same. Dearest Betsy ... blah blah blah. Who's Betsy?"
Dean glanced at him as he pulled another letter from its envelope. "I don't know. Girlfriend? Eleanor didn't mention a Betsy."
"This one looks old. Uh, Dearest Betsy, third day of training camp. Roadwork improving. Working on my left jab. They say this kid Sugar Ray is gonna be tough."
Dean looked at Sam, brows rising in recognition. "Sugar Ray? As in Robinson? Didn't he box in, like, the '40s? Is it signed the same?"
"Yeah. Love, me."
"Here. Dearest Betsy, on the road again. So hard to be away from you, honey. Will give the Red Sox hell and get back to you." Dean read out the letter, mouth rising at one corner at the mention of the team.
"Dearest Betsy ..."
"Dearest Betsy, Le Mans will be a bitch this year with all the rain ..." Dean read.
"...the Phillies are tough, but we're looking to be tougher..." Sam read.
"...them Dodgers will wish they never left Brooklyn..."
"...looking for my best gal Friday night at the Garden..."
"...our o-line hung tough. I had all day back there..."
"...Alain Prost is a monster in the straightaway..."
"Dearest Betsy..."
"Dearest Betsy..."
"Love, me."
Sam picked up a letter, the paper smooth and crisp and white. "Wait, this one looks recent. Dearest Betsy ... So tired of it all."
They looked at each other, reaching the same conclusion. Dean glanced at his watch.
"Come on, we gotta find his personal papers, we'll take with," he said, standing up.
Dean rubbed his eyes, looking around at the coffee pot on the kitchenette counter. Empty. He sighed. Outside it'd been daylight for a couple of hours and they were still going through what they'd found in Brick's private room. He picked up the clipped press cuttings and kept reading, the soft click of the laptop's keys a familiar background noise that he barely noticed.
"Hey. I pulled up the names on those trophies. Check it out," Sam said, staring at the screen.
Dean put the clippings down and got up, dragging the chair to the table and sitting down again behind his brother. On the laptop's screen, Sam had a picture of Brick Holmes on the cover of Sports News Weekly.
"All right, Brick Holmes, football player. Charlie Karnes, race-car driver." Another picture appeared beside the first, showing a dark-haired young man. "Davey Samuelson, baseball player. Kelly Duran, boxer." The four pictures overlaid each other. "Four different guys, right?"
"Okay."
"Check this out." He arranged the pictures so that all four appeared in a square, two over two. "Same dark eyes, same cheekbones, nose, mouth."
Dean looked at the screen. "Wait, are you saying that these four guys who all look to be in their mid-20s and go back 70 years could be the same guy?"
Sam gestured at the screen. The facial similarities weren't lying.
"Huh. For a 95-year-old, Brick Holmes could take a hit," Dean said quietly.
Four hours later.
On the counter the coffee pot was again empty, the light off. Next to it a paper bag was filled with the refuse of the take-out Dean had gone out for two hours ago, the smell still leaking into the room, onions and sharp, vinegary scent of the pickles that had come with Sam's sandwich, predominantly. Sam looked at the results of the news search he'd run on each of the four athletes, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the screen, trying to find the matches were one had retired or 'died' and the next had started a new career. It wasn't that easy to be reborn every twenty years or so, especially for the later incarnations which had needed more and more paperwork to appear legit.
Dean sat in the chair next to his bed, papers and notes and books spread out in front of him. Bobby's library, mostly, everything he could dig out about the Mayans that the man had had. He chewed his lip as one fact leapt out at him.
"So, if all those athletes were the same guy, how'd he pull it off?" Sam asked frustratedly, no connections appearing in any of the searches. "Appear, then go away and come back with a new look?"
Dean glanced up at him, then back to the book he was reading. "Cacao, the, uh, the – the maize God – was Mayan, right?"
Sam turned around. "Yeah."
"The Maya were all about war and torture and conquest and –" He looked at Sam significantly "– sports. This says, "Their athletes were treated like kings." The Mayan jocks made sacrifices to Cacao by – ready for this? – killing a victim, pulling out his heart, and eating it."
It was too close to what was going on to ignore. Dean continued, 'They believed the rituals gave them super-charged power over their opponents."
"Yeah, but they didn't stay young forever," Sam objected, frowning. "So, what? Maybe Brick just made some kind of deal with this Cacao?"
Dean shrugged. "Well, we've seen it before – people making deals with demons, gods. I mean, maybe he stayed young and strong so long as the sacrifices kept coming?" He watched his brother running it through. It was one thing they did well together, putting it out, checking it for holes. "Remember all that antique sports equipment he had? This guy could go back to the Mayan days."
"Wow," Sam said quietly, turning and getting to his feet. "So, one of the greatest QBs to ever play the game was over nine-hundred years old."
"Well, that explains Brick, but what about the mooks carrying his spare parts?" Dean asked.
"Maybe the spell went along for the ride and infected the people who got his organs?" Sam turned around, thinking about it. "Remember how Paul Hayes said he had a health scare that changed his life? I mean, maybe the spell could compel him to keep carrying out the ritual." He sat down in front of the laptop again.
"Sort of like getting bit by a werewolf," Dean speculated out loud. "Once you're infected, you do what you got to do, especially if you like the results."
"Right, except old Arthur, the dedicated cop, couldn't handle it and went nuts," Sam extrapolated further. It was hanging together, not all the pieces there yet, but most of them. They had a way to go. He thought of his childhood hero, letting out his breath in a gusty exhale. "Brick Holmes, a heart eater. Who knew?"
"Yeah, sorry, buddy. The mighty – they fall hard, huh?" Dean looked back at his book. Sports heroes. Like looking up to politicians, he thought disparagingly. They weren't real heroes. Not warriors.
Sam focussed on the screen, looking at the picture of Kelly Duran he'd found earlier.
"Well, at least he wasn't sleeping with his mother."
"Yeah, good, Sam," Dean said, looking up with a small laugh. "Find the silver lining."
"No, seriously. Look." Sam gestured to the screen, turning it around toward his brother.
Dean moved his chair closer to the table, reading the caption. "'Fighter Kelly Duran is congratulated on a second-round knockout by wife Betsy.' Dearest Betsy."
Sam huffed softly. Dean looked at the photograph.
"Eleanor." They said the word together.
The house and garden were quiet and peaceful as the Impala growled into the drive, sending a small flock of birds in the low hedge wheeling and chirping for the higher trees. Dean pulled up in front of the porch and got out, hand touching the outline of the Colt in his jacket pocket lightly, shifting to the knife sheathed behind his hip.
He met Sam as he came around the front of the car, and they climbed the steps together, Sam knocking hard on the door.
Eleanor Holmes opened the door and looked up at them, the welcoming smile fading away as she looked at their faces.
"Hello, Eleanor," Sam said.
"Or would you rather us call you Betsy?" Dean asked, looking down at her, watching the faded blue eyes widen and fill with fear.
Eleanor felt a shiver pass through her, followed by a wave of relief. It was over, all the years of secrets were finally over. She opened the door wide and turned, going to the living room, leaving them to follow her inside.
"Look, Eleanor, innocent people are dying," Sam said, watching her move aimlessly and silently around the room, touching things with her fingertips.
He glanced at his brother, seated in the other armchair. Dean shook his head slightly. Give her some time, the gesture said.
"And they're gonna continue to die until we stop it," Sam said, looking back at her.
She walked to the sofa, and sat down, facing them, hands stiffly on her knees, looking at the floor at her feet.
"Did you know about the murders over the past year?" Dean asked, his voice deliberately hard. She looked up at him, and he saw the shock in her face.
"No. I didn't." She shook her head. "I thought when – when Brick died, it would be over." Her breath rushed out on the last word.
Dean felt Sam's gaze brush over him. He believed her. The relief earlier, the tightly-controlled fear he could see in her now … she hadn't known. But she knew a lot about what was going on, about Brick and how it'd all begun.
"Help us. Betsy, this is not what you want Brick's legacy to be," he said, pressing her.
Betsy. She smiled a little at his use of that old name. Hers for most of her life, but not the last twenty years, and never again. Elizabeth Eleanor Cranton. That had been her name when she'd met Kelly Duran, and fallen in love, and gotten married. Kelly had said it was too formal for a simple Irish boxer and he'd called her Betsy. He'd had a deep, warm voice too, she thought, looking at the man sitting across from her.
"His Mayan name was Inyo," she started, looking from one to the other as she spoke, as she explained. "He was a proud young athlete, nearly one thousand years ago. He lived for sport and never wanted his days in the sun to end," she said, her voice trembling as she remembered him, heard his voice in her mind when he'd told her of his beginnings. "So he arranged a bargain with the god Cacao through a high priest."
"Stay young forever," Dean prompted.
"As long as the sacrifices continued," Betsy confirmed. "Twice a year – once for the planting. Once for harvest."
"When did you find out about this?" Sam asked, unsure if he believed in her or not.
She turned to him. "Not until I began to age and – and Brick – Kelly, as he was when I met him – did not," she smiled to cover the memory of that time, her suspicions, her fears, the fights and the tears and the terrible knowledge that he had eventually shared with her.
"But by that time, Brick himself had changed. Inside. He wasn't just the warrior whose only reason for living was combat. He –" she hesitated, wondering if these two young men would even understand how it had been for Inyo, how it had been for them. That feeling, it still filled her heart. "We were deeply, deeply in love. So in love, I'm ashamed to say, that when I found out that – how my husband stayed young and strong, I chose to ignore it." She looked away, unable to find regret in her decision, despite the shame of knowing that people had died for her happiness.
"You and Brick had to go underground from time to time to hide your secret, right?" Sam looked at her.
"Every ten years or so, he would, uh, re-emerge with a new look, a new name." She nodded. "And me, I was the wife, and I was the woman in hiding, and then, when I got into my forties, I became Brick's mother. Eleanor."
She'd wanted him to stop then. Had wanted the pretence to be over, for them to age together.
"If I stop the sacrifices, Betsy, I won't age with you," he'd said, kneeling in front of her and holding her hands tightly. "Nine hundred years will drop on me and what will be left at your side will be a pile of dust – is that what you want?"
His voice, pleading and angry and despairing, filled her mind.
"I am so tired," she said, looking at them. "You can't imagine the burden of it all. I think even Brick was through. He could see the end of my days were at hand, and ...," she stopped, more memories filling her, bringing an old and deep ache in her heart with them. "He had lived centuries all alone, but I don't think he could bear the thought of life without me. That's why he drove off that bridge." She looked down at her hands, trying to swallow the tears back, trying to regain something of her control. She looked up at Dean, her eyes shimmering. "You must think I'm a monster."
"No," Dean said firmly. He didn't know what she'd felt, not really. Grief he understood, but not her reason for it, not the sort of love that she claimed. He knew that it existed, though, for others. For his father. And he'd seen how it drove people. "No, just that you married one."
He looked away from the surprise and the gratitude that lit up her face, that he'd understood. "Well, see, here's the deal. Now there are eight killers out there that we have to deal with, not just one."
"I don't think so," Betsy said, shaking her head.
"What?" Sam said, exchanging a glance with his brother. "Why not?"
Betsy looked at him. "Brick used to say the heart was key. That was the focus of the sacrifice."
"Are you saying that if we stop Brick's beating heart, then we could stop the whole thing?" Dean asked slowly.
Betsy nodded. Dean looked at Sam.
"Do you know where the person is who has the heart?" He watched her expression change, wary and frightened as she straightened slightly. "Do you know?"
The Bunny Hole sat in between an old-fashioned brick office building and a walk-up apartment block in a nondescript street off Mapleton Avenue. The black car pulled up to the meter on the opposite side of the road, engine rumbling softly as the light traffic passed by them and the railway crossing bells began clanging as a train hooted nearby.
Dean pulled on the brake and turned the key, looking at the club. He turned back to Sam. "Really? Our king daddy monster is a stripper?"
"We're pretty sure this is gonna work, right?" Sam ignored the comment, more worried about the plan.
"Well, as long as Betsy knows what she's talking about," Dean said, reaching over to the back seat and yanking the gear bag over, taking a wide-bladed sheathed knife from it and handing it to Sam. "Mildew. Definitely thinking outside the box."
"You think Brick thought maybe he'd burn to nothing when he crashed that car?" Sam asked.
"Yeah," Dean said. "But he didn't, which brings us here."
He got out of the car, hearing Sam opening the other door behind him, and crossed the street. The main doors were locked up tight and a little too visible to make breaking in broad daylight a viable option. He glanced around and saw the narrow side alley, walking toward it as Sam followed.
At the end of the alley, the rear door beckoned, overlooked by mostly blank brick walls, the neon signs washed out in the daylight, more artlessly unprovocative paintings of ladies in compromising positions covering the doors. Sam looked around as Dean picked the padlock on the chain holding the doors closed and let them in.
The building was dark and they pulled out their flashlights, beams flicking up the narrow wooden stairs and along the walls and doorways as they moved deeper inside.
At the top of the stairs, they moved into a wider room, lockers and mirrors and posters along the walls confirming Dean's olfactory judgement of the room's purpose.
He smiled as he looked at Sam. "Smell that?"
Sam inhaled and looked at his brother. "You're gross."
They climbed another set of stairs, emerging in the main salon of the club, bar and tables and chairs surrounding a deep and wide stage, the edges and columns lit by bright blue neon strips. A heavy clunk from behind the stage brought up the house lights and they turned to the closed gold lamé curtains, seeing a shadow moving behind them.
Randa came out between the folds, dressed in a loose sleeveless top, skin-tight denim jeans, a long red feather earring dangling down to her chest from one ear. Dean and Sam turned off their flashlights as they watched her.
As monsters went, Dean thought appraisingly, she was the one of the most attractive he'd come across.
"Eleanor sent you, right? I figured she'd probably break and give me up," she said calmly, walking slowly downstage toward them, pausing for a moment to let her fingers slip down the neon pole near the front of the stage. "This won't end well for her, of course." She took another step closer to them, adding, "Not that it's gonna end well for you."
Sam drew out the thick, serrated edged knife, shifting his feet and finding his balance, as Dean stood quietly, just waiting.
Randa smiled at the sight of the blade. "Oh, now, you don't think we're gonna let you do that, do you?"
"We?" Dean looked at her, brow lifted.
Randa stepped back and raised her brows, her gaze cutting to one side. Dean and Sam heard them at the same time, ducking as the metal trays bounced off them and the two men grabbed at them. Sam slashed low with the knife, Hayes stepping to one side and gripping an arm and shoulder tightly. The man's hands felt like claws of steel and Sam was lifted and thrown across the room, hitting the steel pipe balustrade of the stairs with an ominous clanging noise.
Dean had the Colt out and aimed at Hayes, the chubby health nut stepping in blindingly fast and sweeping his arm aside, the straight jab like a sledgehammer into his jaw, spinning him into the arms of the bigger Asian man standing behind him. He slammed his fist into the forearm holding him, knuckles splitting as they hit muscle like iron. He tried to break the other arm's hold and felt himself lifted and thrown onto the stage, slamming down onto his back, the pincer-like grip of missing transplant recipient, Jimmy Tong, biting into his shoulder, Jimmy's other hand curling around his elbow. Hayes reached out and grabbed his left shoulder and arm, the same strength in his grip, and Dean realised that he might just be trapped here as he fought against them.
"Oh, you guys are stronger than you look," he muttered, trying to shift his weight against one side then the other.
"Comes with the package. Plus, I work out a lot," Hayes said cheerfully, fingers biting deeper, starting to tear along the muscle. Dean flinched at the sharp, acid pain.
He looked up as Randa walked over, four-inch stiletto heels of her shoes clicking on the stage floor, stopping with her feet to either side of his right leg. She looked down at him thoughtfully.
"You can't imagine who I was before. This shy, awkward little thing from Georgia with a heart condition. Then I had the surgery." She lifted her foot, resting it on his stomach and he felt the narrow heel push down into his skin, against his diaphragm.
"I became freaking Xena, Warrior Princess," she said, smiling down at him, shifting her feet to either side of him and sitting over his hips, hands on his shoulders as she leaned forward.
"I couldn't dissect a frog in high school," she confided to him. "But sacrificing to Cacao?" Her hand curled around his neck, sliding over his cheek as she continued. "Better than sex."
She pulled the two sides of his plaid shirt apart, the buttons flying off as they were ripped out, pushing them back and running her fingernail lightly over the tee shirt stretched over his chest. "So, if I go real slow, and take my time and enjoy this, I can actually show you your own beating heart before you die."
Setting the ends of her fingers against his ribs, Randa pushed down hard against the resistance of the curved bones protecting his heart, nails splitting through the fabric of his shirt, through the thin layer of skin and muscle.
Dean grunted as the fingers started to bend and split the bones, his face screwing up and teeth clenched, locking the scream in his throat down. He could feel his ribs being prised apart, the cartilage between them tearing as she thrust in harder.
Sam rose behind Hayes and swung the bottle in his hand, smashing it into the back of the man's head, glass and vodka flying out in a spray. As Hayes shuddered and turned, Sam slid the heavy knife along the left side of Dean's body, hidden by its shadow. He swung wildly at Hayes, drawing him off, and Dean flexed his arm, reaching down to the knife as Randa stared at the fight, her hand no longer pressing into him, her attention elsewhere.
Closing his fingers around the hilt felt like someone had pushed a white-hot wire into his shoulder, the muscle damaged where Hayes' fingers had pushed deep. He ignored the pain and lifted the blade up, sweeping it into her abdomen, just under the breastbone, the tip angled up to penetrate the heart, eyes shut tight as he forced it deeper, with no leverage and barely any strength in his shoulders. Brilliant red light lit up her eyes as the wound seemed to fill with red fire, crackling and hissing and smoking around the embedded knife blade.
Randa looked down at Dean in disbelief as she felt the tip pierce her heart, staggering to her feet and backing slowly away, her hands rising as the wound expanded, dissolving the strength of the god and eating at her, spreading out through her limbs and devouring her. The transplanted organ in Jimmy Tong vaporised in his abdomen, scorching through flesh and clothing and he dropped to the floor, dead. Paul Hayes' heart valves followed suit, and Sam watched as he fell at his feet.
On the stage, Randa gasped, her breaths getting shorter and shorter as her body was incinerated from within. She screamed as the light flared out, then fell as it died to nothing.
Sam stared down at his brother, lying on the stage. Dean rolled onto his shoulder, hand curved protectively over the torn flesh and aching bones in his chest, his head snapping up to check that Sam was alright, then thumping back onto the stage as he closed his eyes and waited for everything to calm down.
Dean looked at the suit sourly and folded it up, dragging the dry-cleaning bag over it as he shoved it back into the duffle. Was it just him, or did they seem to be wearing the goddamned things for more and more jobs? He zipped up the bag and set it on the end of the bed next to the gear bag, looking through that with a practised eye, checking that everything in it was clean, present and accounted for.
Sam glanced at him. "Sorry, tell me again why you want to stop off at the Holme's place?"
Dean exhaled softly and zipped up the gear bag. "Sam, stop making an issue of this. She deserves to know that it's finished, don't you think?"
"I'm not – yeah, that's something I'd do, think of," Sam looked at him. "Not something you would, necessarily."
"Gonna give me a medal?" He hid the small stab of pain at the comment with a grin. "Come on, I'm hungry, I wanna eat before we get too far out."
The kitchen had almost made him laugh. It was as full of marble and polished wood and ornate furniture as the rest of the rooms in the house. The coffee was good, though. He finished the cup, setting it down carefully on the marble-topped counter in front of him.
"Thanks. We better get going, uh ..." He glanced at Sam. "Just wanted you to know that it really is over now," he said, ignoring Sam's audible inhale beside him as Sam put down his cup as well.
Betsy nodded. "Well, it had to be, one way or the other," she said, looking at him. "I half-thought you might fail and Randa would come after me." She shrugged slightly. "Either way, I'd finally be at peace."
Dean saw something, a flash of expression or twitch or flinch cross her face, shadow her eyes for a brief second, there and gone. "You take care of yourself, Betsy," he said softly, the rebuke in his voice very, very faint.
Her eyes widened a little as she looked back at him, then he turned away, walking down the long hall to the front door.
I-25 N, Colorado
Dean was driving, the Impala purring along the road, speeding through the night again. Sam sat silently, looking through the windshield, feeling the energy running through his brother. It was, he guessed, better than seeing Dean in full depression, dragged down by despair and hopelessness. It would be better if it wasn't accompanied by the twitchy reactions, the nights waking and seeing him prowling along the windows of the rooms, checking their defences obsessively … he ran his fingers sharply through his hair, pushing it back from his face.
Dean glanced over at him as the gesture caught his peripheral vision. "Back in business. Got the win. Admit it – feels good, huh?" He ignored Sam's silence. "You know, I was thinking about what Betsy said about, uh, you know, Inyo and being a warrior, living for combat … I get it, man, I do."
"I know." Sam sighed softly. "I know you do."
He looked across at his brother. He did know. Dean was at his best when he had something to fight, someone to protect, to defend, something to pit his mind and body and heart against.
Looking back to the lit road in front of them, he drew in a breath and said, "I don't. Not anymore. Hell, maybe I never did."
He remembered being completely strung-out with the need to find the demon, after Jessica's murder. He remembered a similar blood-rage in himself when Dean had gone to Hell, to find and kill Lilith. He'd wanted to kill Lucifer, wanted to end that nightmare before it could ever begin. But since then … he was tired. And the rage that had powered all of those times had gone.
"Come on, Sam, don't ruin my buzz, would you?" Dean said entreatingly, knowing that the not-talk was over.
Sam shook his head. He needed to say it. Dean needed to hear it. At least once. Out in the open. On the table. "Dean, listen, when this is over – when we close up shop on Kevin and the tablet – I'm done." He looked at his brother. "I mean that."
"No, you don't."
Sam felt a flash of something that almost but not quite amusement at the instant denial. "Dean, the year that I took off, I had something I haven't had since college. A normal life. I mean, I got to see what that felt like. I want that," he looked at him, then looked away in self-realisation. "I had that."
"I think that's just how you feel right now," Dean said, hating the patronising tone that had crept into his voice, unable to prevent it, not sure what it meant.
Sam looked away. The year that had gone by without Dean … without hunting, or killing or blood or salt or sulphur … he'd had a job. And a girlfriend. And a dog, a house, a garden, been to the movies, celebrated his birthday … and hers, had Thanksgiving and Christmas, maybe not Rockwell, either of them, but a damned sight closer than he'd seen in the last few years. He'd had clean clothes, kept in the same drawers, the same bed to sleep in, had cooked a good meal every night because Amelia's idea of cooking wasn't sufficient to feed anyone. He'd had swimming in the river in the summer, seeing live bands at their local bar on Saturday nights, going to an art gallery and spending the whole day there, reading – hell, collecting books to read – whenever he'd felt like it.
He felt himself bursting with those memories, wanting to explain them to Dean, knowing that his brother would never understand them, his feelings about them, all those totally normal, trivial, self-indulgent, completely ordinary things that he'd loved.
"It's not just the way I feel right now, Dean," he said quietly.
Dean's fingers closed more tightly around the wheel.
"It's what I want my life to be."